


Ache

by cherryjam (blueskull)



Series: FFXIV Write 2020 [9]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Angst, Drabble, F/M, FFxivWrite2020, Hyur Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Selectively Mute Main Character, Stream of Consciousness, shb spoilers, written for ffxivwrite2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-16
Updated: 2020-09-16
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:48:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26496682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueskull/pseuds/cherryjam
Summary: The ache starts in his jaw as he grinds his teeth to sleep, and sinks into an insidious, consuming sensation that prickles at his skin.
Relationships: Solus zos Galvus | Emet-Selch/Warrior of Light
Series: FFXIV Write 2020 [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1913422
Kudos: 3





	Ache

**Author's Note:**

> References “[Whimsy](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24368488)”, “[Confession](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25719313)”, and “[Part](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26472820)”.

The ache starts in his jaw as he grinds his teeth to sleep, the expanse of bed where she slots next to him empty and cold. It sinks into an insidious, consuming sensation, prickles at his skin the next day when he sees her only to witness her returning her red mask for a plain white one, same as all the others. Were he anyone else, perhaps she would simply disappear into the sea of dark-cowled and pale-masked figures all around them.

But not ever with those kaleidoscope colours of hers.

His ears ring with violin screeches and hisses, enough to make him want to wring the neck of the woman who spits them at him. But more than anything, what tears at him are the words _she_ had spoken to him that day, a heavy, sickening ache in his stomach that leaves his limbs leaden.

\-- She had never before called him _Emet-Selch_ in private. For the first time, that vaunted title had made him feel ill.

________ 

The ages pass, half awake, even in this old human shell. Dreams warp and change, but what never twists is that insurmountable _longing_. A wish for what was before, a desire for everything to return to _normal_.

Emet-Selch has long stopped hoping that one day he might awake in his quarters again, see the argument had been nothing more than a strange fever dream. All he has is monotony and an itchy, pervasive _waiting_. Waiting for everything to fall into place, waiting for the rejoining to finally be complete. To see it all returned as it should be.

For now, he simply sleeps away the ache and pretends it isn’t there.

________ 

“And so, while it is liable to be troublesome, I have settled upon a different approach...”

The so-called Warrior of Light backs away from him when he approaches, her gaze staunchly turned from his face. The hue she bears is achingly familiar, yet not precisely the same. It cannot possibly be the same.

 _She_ would have looked at him, not shrunk away like some frightened child. And she looks so very _small_ , this vaunted warrior. He clicks his tongue, bends to try to meet the gaze she so carefully tries to keep from him. But perhaps despite that, there is some level of curiosity within her. There has to be, otherwise why would she deign to look up when only just before she had shied away?

Green meets yellow, and for a moment he forgets himself.

But hers is not nearly so vibrant.

Exhaling a breath, he finishes what he started.

“ -- _Cooperation_!”

________ 

The Ascian stares at the little torn note in front of him. It’s not that he doesn’t understand the writing upon it -- he very much _does_. That does not stop him, however, from holding it at arm’s length between his thumb and forefinger as if the parchment might bite him.

He does not recognise the writing until he reaches the end. It is signed, very simply, _Arianna_. No last name, of course. But there is only one Arianna that he knows. And only one whom he has ever been in close contact with.

Emet-Selch has read her writing before. Simply not cared enough to remember the details of a shade’s handwriting...but that he should find this in his _pocket_ is exceptionally curious.

 _A thank you note_. A letter of gratitude for saving the barbed-tongued sorceress.

When was the last time he’d received a thank you letter...? Certainly not in this lifetime. And from the person he’d last expect to ever receive anything from.

There’s a strange, sickly, uncomfortable sensation in his chest, some sort of feeling he’s long forgotten threatening to return. He has the faint urge to crumple the paper into dust.

He stares at it for one long moment more, and folds it back along its creases. Then stows it back into his pocket.

But when on earth had she mustered the courage to weasel that in there...? Why not simply show it to him directly...?

 _Hmph_.

________ 

He feels ill.

Looking at her book makes him feel _ill_.

Names she shouldn’t know, places she shouldn’t know, experiences she shouldn’t know...

Those carefully, lovingly written pages mock him as he sits upon her bed, flipping through them like a man possessed. He’d grown curiouser and curiouser, despite his misgivings. Seeing her carry that book around --

What merit could a shade’s ramblings possibly have?

Most of them are fragments of...other stories. Fine ones, he supposes. At first, he doesn’t notice the faint pieces -- 

And then that one fateful word catches his eye.

 _Hades_.

It all goes downhill from there. The second he notices _his_ name, is the second he finds more and more of these ill-begotten tales. _Persephone. Hythlodaeus._ These are mem --

Fancied imaginings of an overactive mind. Coincidence. An imposter’s mutterings. And utterly maddening to read.

He doesn’t hear the door creaking open, but he _does_ hear the clatter of Arianna’s white mage’s cane as it hits the ground. He glances up just in time to see her all but fly at him at a speed he would have never assumed her capable of, her thin fingers slamming the book shut -- nearly on his own -- as she pulls the tome from his grasp.

It’s as if her face isn’t quite sure whether it wants to go ashen white or beet red. At any other time, he might have laughed.

He doesn’t have to be a mind-reader to know what that expression says _\-- what are you doing?!_

And the way her soul swims...

There are tears in her eyes as she fumbles uselessly with the book, shoving it back into its nightstand drawer where it belongs. She seems to forget, momentarily, where she stows her _other_ book as she rummages blindly in the bag slung about her shoulders.

“Oh, right.” She doesn’t speak. “Let me.” Without bothering to ask, he tugs at her aether, forming a temporary link. The no-doubt odd sensation has the woman freezing to stare at him blankly. _“We can speak like this. It will be easier for you. And I had questions of my own for you.”_

They’re both silent, a stalemate. For once, neither move. Slowly, Arianna’s tense limbs begin to relax.

_“What is...?”_

\-- Ah.

Emet-Selch bites the inside of his cheek, hard, as that quiet voice creeps along the bond. How long has -- ?

He shuts his eyes.

It doesn’t matter. This is not the same. And it never will be.

 _“Yes, like that.”_ He’s matter of fact, nothing but purely professional. _“Perfect. You’re a natural at this. Now, you must want to know why I was looking at your book.”_ He shrugs. _“I was curious, and bored. So very sorry.”_

No matter how his tone sounds, he really is. Though perhaps not for the reason he _should_ be.

_“It was inconsiderate of me. But, I must admit, it makes me curious...where do you get your ideas for these stories? Particularly...the ones about Hades and Persephone.”_

The way her brows furrow as she listens to him tells him that she doesn’t understand the reason for his consternation or the motive behind his queries. Good. Slowly, her back straightens, her fingers curling together as she considers how to answer.

 _“The same as...any other story? The ideas simply...come to me, whether sleeping or awake...so I write them.”_ There is, for some reason, the faintest of curves to her mouth, her gaze growing soft. She isn’t looking at him. Perhaps she is thinking of those “stories” of hers.

 _“Is there anyone you like most? In those stories. Anyone you feel particularly connected to.”_ He’s not sure what possesses him to ask the question. Perhaps seeing her look so _content_ as she _fondly_ remembers the _fiction_ she’s written of. But it’s no fiction at all.

Emet-Selch expects to hear her name meandering back across the link. That _she_ is what she wants to be. Aspires to be. This one is nothing more than a shade, after all.

The answer is not what he expects.

Her fingers clasp together, the smile grows softer, fonder still. The colours seem to melt and sway and swirl before him like melting chocolate. _Why isn’t she looking at him?_

_“Hades. I think he is very charming. -- ...He reminds me a little bit of you.”_

Perhaps she had not meant to send this little, errant thought along after the rest.

But it goes.

It takes a moment, but she realises. And when she does, her expression ought to be absolutely priceless: the dark red flush that ensconces her entire visage, reddening even her ears. He supposes even her neck might redden at this rate. And the way her mouth opens and shuts like a fish’s as she recoils from him --

The sheer force of her embarrassment and fluster is more than enough to completely snap the flimsy bond between them. It is of no matter to him; he simply gets to his feet, opening a portal.

“Goodbye.”

There is nothing else to say. There is nothing else to think about -- nothing he _wants_ to think about.

________ 

“Poisoned?” he queries pleasantly, leaning back in the chair in Arianna’s Pendants room as he peers into the cup. The steam that rises smells vaguely -- nostalgic in a stomach-churning way. “Nightshade? Oleander? Or maybe holly leaf?”

The woman shakes her head as she pulls out another cup. He knows without looking that the herbs she picks for hers are different. And then, as the herbs boil together, she stirs the mixture just so, pouring it in with a practised movement she’s done over and over and over again.

 _Uncomfortable_. He’s uncomfortable. There’s that ache again.

While the cups steep, the shade picks up her books and pen and writes a response for him.

> _Lemon balm, chamomile, and johns wort. For relaxing._

Perhaps would it have been anyone else, he might have questioned the _motives_ for giving him such a brew. But he knows without having to remember that there’s no such point in wondering that, either.

Before he can stop himself, he’s already needling at her.

“Are you sure? I do recall the First has its own names for such plants. Perchance you’ve unwittingly slipped something toxic in.”

For a long moment, there’s no reply. Perhaps she’s simply chosen to ignore him this time. But before long, she’s writing on her paper again, holding the book up for him to see.

> _I can tell from the smell, texture, colour. You don’t have to worry._

There’s the faintest of smiles.

 _Worry?_ He has to resist the urge to scoff. He’s not worried about anything. Aside from that strange sensation that assails him whenever he’s near her and her _acceptable_ colours.

________ 

Emet-Selch stares blankly at the white mask in her hands. A small, pale, white half mask; an Amaurotine mask. Perhaps his fancies had gotten ahead of him this time. His hand slowly lowers from her shoulder as she turns the mask in her hands over in pure, almost childlike wonderment.

She had asked him what the magic of eld had been like. He had only been too pleased to explain it to her -- of course he had. She seemed to like hearing him talk, besides, if her volume of questions toward him had been any indication thus far.

Talking brings back that _itch_ , that hollowness to his chest. He worsens it of his own volition by asking her if she would like to _try_. To make something. On her own.

Creation magic --

Certainly she still has the aptitude. Perhaps she might still be able to make...something. Something small. That’s why he tells her to imagine -- something simple. Something in her mind’s eye -- a _concept_ she would like to see brought to life. Just like old times. Just like before.

Arianna had _tried_ indeed, bless her poor, tiny soul she had _tried_. Even he had been shocked she would willingly exert so much aether around him. And yet still it hadn’t been enough for her to make that simple, simple thing in her head -- whatever she was imagining, it simply wouldn’t come. Sweat pours down her temple even as she forces magic into her hands.

 _There is simply nothing there_.

So he takes pity on her, laying a hand on her shoulder. The contact has her jumping, her concentration fraying; he finds himself rubbing fingers along her arm and shoulder, unconsciously muttering something about _relaxing_. She doesn’t want to end up making something completely different, after all. Than...whatever it is she’s making.

He’s funneling his magic into something and he’s not even really completely sure what it _is_...until it appears in her hands. The white mask.

It’s simple. A child could do it. Well, a child of _Amaurot_ could. That she had needed help for so inconsequential a thing...

Pity stirs in his gut. A deep unease from within his bones.

“Well...” He clears his throat. He does not need to ask to know where this comes from. It’s from her “stories”. “Why don’t you try it on?” Arianna glances at him tiredly; he manages a vague smile that feels plastic. This was a terrible idea. Now he simply feels _sick_.

Head in hand, he watches her lean into the mirror at the dresser and fit the mask to her face. She turns, this way and that, brushing her fingers along the smooth edges. There’s another, different, pang. He thinks he can remember something like this --

Arianna writes something down in her book before she turns to him. She holds the tome open wide for him, but it’s a long while before he’s able to read it.

His posture stiffens as he stares at her, expression unreadable. All the breath in his lungs -- stops, shrivels, stale air. A ghost of the past stands before him, his throat uncomfortably clenched. Emotions he cannot and does not want to name rip at him as he finally tears his gaze away.

> _Like this?_

And all he can say is --

“I -- yes, _just like that_.”

________ 

They seem to like her very much.

 _Good_.

It would be rather inconvenient if those ridiculous balls of fluff happened to dislike the person whom they had been made for. Luckily, that doesn’t seem to be a problem in this case.

They seem to positively _adore_ her, following her about the room or perching happily on her shoulder or head. And the delighted sounds they seem to make every single time he makes himself comfortable there tell him they’re not at all opposed to the company they keep.

It’s so strangely familiar. Watching her puttering about the room makes him uneasy as much as he wants to continue simply observing her. An odd sense of deja vu -- her teas, the creatures tumbling about her, the kaleidoscope that bursts from her skin...

He can’t possibly know this.

He doesn’t realise he’s simply _watching_ her until her gaze catches his, a redness rising to her cheeks. For a moment, he thinks he can see one of her hands lifting to --

The bottom of his stomach drops out from beneath him, and his throat constricts painfully. Emet-Selch directs his gaze to the dining table, counting the abandoned cups and plates.

An uncomfortable silence descends upon them.

“I suppose I shall -- ”

Halfway through his proclamation, one of the tiny creatures -- the pink one -- bounces its way over to him, stopping just short of his foot. His eyebrows furrow as it stares up at him imploringly.

He doesn’t like...anything touching him.

The pitiful whine it makes has him rolling his eyes. The Ascian sighs heavily, finally obliging the creature and leaning down, allowing it to hop onto his palm. It makes a happy sound of contentment as he straightens to stare down at it impassively.

“I-it seems to...like you.”

She’s been _trying_ her voice more often around him. To be frank, he didn’t even expect her to speak at all after _that_. He glances at her for a moment, shrugs.

“Well, they were explicitly created to like _you_ , so I suppose they also have a fondness for what you li -- ”

Normally, he would _absolutely_ have continued that statement. Thankfully, his mind has caught up to his mouth. Despite her bemused expression, he turns away from her, unceremoniously dropping the ball of fluff to her bed, where it lands upon the cover.

“I really must be going now. I’m afraid you’ve delayed my plans for world domination long enough this evening.”

Before she can begin to ask, or even speak at all, he’s gone.

________ 

“I-I should...like to s-speak with you more. If...the idea does not...displease you...”

The more she speaks, the more a fluttering nervousness takes hold of her. He probably thinks such a request silly of her. Ridiculous. Uncalled for. _Childish_. Why would —

“I can’t see why not.” Oh. So he doesn’t. Quite get. What she means...

“T...the link.” Silence meets her whispered words. She thinks she can almost feel the comprehension dawning upon him. She’s too frightened to look at him.

“You wish to make it...more permanent?” He really is absolutely shocked. All she manages is a stiff nod.

He’s getting — uncomfortable again. She has a way of getting beneath his skin in a way no one else seems to be able to, for all her flighty fumblings. There’s...a charm to her nervousness, almost comparable to —

What terrifies him more than any candid word from her is the fact that he _wants_. Oh, he longs to have that — that _connection_. That vestige from before.

“It’s just — “ She seems to interpret his silence as disapproval and struggles to come up with an excuse. “It’ll be easier...to...to...”

He lifts a hand, waves it to placate her. For some reason he doesn’t feel especially eager to speak with words.

Emet-Selch pulls at her aether, and like before, she feels that tugging sensation again — albeit stronger this time. A moment passes before she hears him — in her head, again, and suddenly, abstractly, she feels as if she’s home.

 _*...Like this?”_ Something like a sigh precedes his first word. It takes her a moment to remember how to respond.

 _” — Yes.”_ If breathlessness could be conveyed upon it, perhaps he might have felt it; perhaps he could feel the strange warmth that seeps up her chest, the odd flutterings of something that is like nostalgia but by all rights shouldn’t be.

Unfortunately, he can.

________ 

The final lightwarden.

As they fell, he had known it would come to this. And yet, for all her supposed strength, for all his questions and her answers, he can see the change within her.

_“Are you sure you’re all right? Not feeling like something’s tearing you apart from within?”  
“I’m...I’m fine.”_

The pointed jabs mask genuine -- concern? Regard? Discomfort?

He can see her soul changing. The fine cracks of light, first hair-thin, slowly growing in size...

Arianna will not be able to take it, and he’s not sure --

“I will not help you find it.”

She is understanding. Of course she is.

But what she does not understand is that the reason he wishes she not seek it out is not what she thinks it to be.

He is terrified of what should happen if her soul really _does_ break.

The ache never leaves him, deep into the night; merely worsens when some sort of nightmare takes her. A strange occurrence in and of itself. She doesn’t often have those -- so it seems. But perhaps...it’s been getting to her.

He arrives shortly after she awakens, merely to repeat himself. Not for anything else, and certainly not because she’d been uncomfortable just as he had been.

“Perhaps I might tell you another story, hmm? Something that sends you off to dreamland~. Well, a proper one, at least. Perhaps you’ll even dream of your _charming_ Hades again.” 

________ 

The cracking within him breaks into a crescendo as he falls to his knees, her in his arms. Or is that the cracking of her soul he hears as it tries to contain the overflowing light within?

What he should, could, _can_ do -- why is it out of every possible outcome that makes itself visible to him, the one that promises to put an end to this insufferable pain is the one that tells him to help her?

And not the sort of help that involves letting this run its course.

_I want to stay with you._

He doesn’t want to leave her. After, or because of, everything, he doesn’t want to let her go.

Perhaps the ache will never truly disappear, but as much as he gripes, there has never been a more potent salve than _her_.


End file.
